The Blind Windows
by Le Chat Noir
Summary: Curufin returns from Mandos, and has a discussion with his brother Maglor. Can there be healing for the Sons of Fëanor?
1. The Waking Dream

The Blind Windows

By Le Chat Noir

- Part one: The Waking Dream

Something. 

A nice, cool feeling that ran alongside him, surrounding him entirely. A tinge at the senses, awareness of the silence and night, consciousness of the Void, of the nothing that has burst into existence. And that in his chest, suffocating, choking, burning inside slowly but effectively and hazy and intense yet strangely bright and clear.

A sharp intake of breath, and his hands clenched themselves in a jerk to seize a handful of the cold sheets.

Gradually, the breathing steadied into a regular rhythm. The hands moved along the bed. The sheets were made of fine fabric, and the passing of time had not degraded their softness; they felt, under his clumsy hands, like something he had once known. Or they did simply feel. Unsure, uneasy, the light fingers brushed their chill surface. 

The warmth of his own breath sent a shiver down his spine. 

There was something in the silence. Something to be heard; a sound all new to him again, but which he had once heard before. 

The elf opened his eyes, and sat up on the bed. Untamed, his long hair fell in his face, and he pushed it away with a hasty gesture. 

He blinked. Nothing. There had been nothing at all, an eternity of the Void; or maybe it had not been the Void. 

The soft sound persisted. At first, in the semi-darkness, there was nothing to be seen. An old room, left untouched for many centuries. The windows shut, the wall-paint cracked; the plaster of the ceiling beginning to fall off. Yet no dust. A smaller bed next to his. On the bed the prostrated form of a child, facing the wall. Silent sobs shook the skinny shoulders, a short dark braid fell from his head; the silhouette seemed light somehow; hazy in its frame, the lines wavering as if plunged behind a wall of burning air.

There had been nothing to see, nothing to hear. No remembrances. Just a pit, an infinite pit of emptiness, staring back at him.

He watched the crying child for a few seconds. There had been nothing before the pain and the cold against his bare skin. There had been no life, no death; no thoughts. Only maybe the Night. And then still perhaps there had been no meaning for that word, no sense in mouthing it aloud because it could summon nothing but a vague fear.

He knew the child; he was certain he had seen him before. 

Tentatively, he reached out a hand to soothe the young boy's tears. But the small form laid too far away, and he had to shift his position so as to reach the shaking frame. 

In the meantime, his hand passed through the white silhouette as through a freezing cloud, and as his hand clenched instinctively around the palm, his fingers closed on a fistful of fleeting air. 

At the place of the boy, there lay a neatly folded cloak, looking grayish in the obscurity. 

A vague sequence of sounds slowly took form in his mind, not even a name, not even a word.

"Tyelpe?" he whispered. 

Immediately, he chocked, as his tongue moved again against his palate, and solid air burst through his throat and flooded his lungs; making him bring a clutching hand to his chest. For two minutes, he stayed still, waiting for the burning sensation to pass. 

What did it mean, that thing he had uttered? 

There was a wardrobe at the back of the room. He knew it, though at the beginning he could not see. It was made of the finest wood, carved by the finest artist. It was a wardrobe. There were clothes in it, cloaks, robes, both rich and plain, but all made with the most exquisite taste. Silken shirts. Embroidered. And then there was a sun, a great sun with sixteen rays shooting from its heart that shone too bright. 

It had maybe not been long. There was no counting of time. Just a state of being without really being, and a century could well pass like a single second as like a thousand eternities. There was the silence, and the feel of _nothing; it was oblivion brought by the sharpest memories of all, oblivion with no one to share your tears nor smiles with. _

Maybe boredom sometimes. 

The cold of the marble floor sent daggers through the sole of his foot up to his leg up to the chest, and a short hiss escaped his lips as his heart felt frozen in its cage. 

After some minutes, the bottom of his left foot was gradually getting accustomed to the sharp pain of the freezing floor, and he wondered whether he should put the right one down too. It was however not a real question, and hesitantly, he stood up and took a wavering step toward the said piece of furniture. 

The head felt light. It was quite agreeable. His pupils dilated in order to see clearly in the darkness, though he was not aware of it. His steps were uncertain, almost dubious, but then of course it did not hurt as much as in the beginning to put one foot in front of the other.

There had been no torments. He did not know why, but there should have been torments. There should have been _eyes, daggers searing into his soul, inquiring looks of pity and compassion. Why? There had been nothing. Should there have been something in place of the Void? _

The wardrobe's doors creaked when he pulled them open. Of course, it was such an ancient wardrobe. It had been locked, but with time the metal work of the lock had rusted and fallen. It would not have mattered anyways. The key was just there, lying on the ground, innocently awaiting someone to take it up and use it once again, someone that would never come. 

He had forgotten how soft the linen felt under his hands. Bright colors seemed fade in the absence of light to match, dirty, veiled. Absently, he shifted through the perfectly folded piles of clothing; but there was less there then he remembered. Several elements were missing, though he did not know which, and the amount of practical, daily garments severely lessened.

His palms wandered up and down the shelves, until he selected a shirt and a pair of leggings; in the darkness they were of a deep shade of red, and the shirt bore an intricate design of silver that did not shine. Only when he pulled it out and held it at arm length in front of himself did he recognize the great sun he had earlier seen.

Seen? Imagined? Thought of? 

Or _remembered_? 

But the air felt cold against his bare skin, and so he hastily pulled the ancient garments on. There were however no shoes there, nothing to wear on his feet; he felt convinced of it after throwing a quick glance around the room. Its owner had left a long time ago, taking away as much of his possessions as he could. Still, he felt a little sorry that the previous occupant had not even left a pair of slippers there for him. 

There was someone standing in the room opposite of him. He stared. The other elf looked quite young, quite frail; his uncombed black hair fell in a crazy cascade down to his waist. He wore a rich, dark red shirt and leggings of the same taint, which colour only served to accentuate his ghostly paleness. A feeling he could not quite place troubled his mind. Frowning slightly, he strode to stand right in front of the stranger, and the stranger walked up to him. Great, shadowed pitch-black eyes plunged back into his, and the pale, fair face bore an expression of mild surprise and displeasure. 

With a slight push of his hand, the mirror rotated, and he was looking at its flat wooden back. 

Meaningless. In fact no truth, no lies; just the verity of existing or not existing, being dead or _alive_. 

There was a great bookshelf situated next to the mirror. It was empty. Only two books were there, lying down on the bottom shelf, old and tattered. He picked one of them up, and flipped through it absently. Some pages crumbled under his touch, and yellowed pieces of paper fell on the white floor. He replaced the book back where he had taken it.

Idly, he turned the mirror back again, and pulled the only chair of the room away from its desk in front of the mirror; sitting down, he spent a minute closely studying his reflection. 

After a while, he lifted a hand to comb his hair. 

It was a difficult task. The hair was not entirely straight, but fell in a mass of unruly locks, and he found it was almost impossible to get it unknotted without a brush. But all he had were his hands, and, after a long while, he finally succeeded into getting it under control. 

Picking up the white cloak from the small bed, he fastened it around his shoulders. After a moment's hesitation, he also pulled the hood over his head. 

Walking over to the windows, he pushed the panes open. 

If it wasn't for the hood, the light would have caught him straight in the eye. But the piercing radiance, for once, contented itself with flooding the room. He felt the warm rays on his face, gently caressing. 

With a smile, he turned around to look at the sunlit room. The first thing he saw was the bookshelf, empty, desperately empty, with the sunrays playing on the thin layer of dust that covered the wood. 

Dust. He had not known there had been dust. 

A strange terror seized his heart, and cold fingers tightened around his neck. 

Dust. A thin layer of dust. Undisturbed, there, for years, centuries, millennia past. Heartbeat. One, two. The fine particles held in suspension glistened with an ethereal shine under Vàsa's golden beams. 

The icy fingers, like snakes, slid down his neck, and froze on his ribcage. 

Unrested at last. 

Unknown tears welled up in his eyes, and, with a dash, he made it to the other end of the room, pushing the door open with one hand, and ran away from the sunlight. 

His fast footfalls sounded loud and clear in the long corridor. The echo to his own ears seemed odd and distorted, repetitive thuds of his alien steps clashing with the millennial silence.

Every wall screamed back at him in dire agony. 

The corridor was dark. There were other doors alongside it, great, forbidding doors of iron. One by one, as he passed, he flung them open, one by one; and, running into the obscure rooms, he harshly pulled at the windowpanes, and let the light unrest the darkness. 

A mad rhythm. One foot in front of the other. And again. 

He knew those rooms. Always a fraction of a second before the heavy doors gave way under his hands he knew that he knew them, every corner, every detail. There a desk, there a bed, unmade, ruffled sheets; there a forgotten book or a broken harp. 

There a name. A voice. A hand. 

There a smile in an absent face. 

The end of the tunnel. A flight of stairs, going down. He tripped over his own feet in precipitation, and stumbled down the steps, nearly rolling to the foot of the staircase, before managing to put a hand to the floor and steady himself. 

The great hall looked like a box, with serious problems of disproportion. 

On each side of it, at twenty feet from the wall, stood a row of columns, ancient marble columns, once exquisitely carved; but they too had fallen to ruins and dust. The high windows started at about one third of the height of the hall, which was impressive, and reached up all the way to the top. Pale, faded sunrays fought their way through the dirtied glass. Oblique pillars of square light streamed the room. 

An aquarelle of whites and greys. The silence there was even more heartfelt than anywhere else, because he knew it had not been meant to be silent. 

Tentatively, almost filled with a kind of awe that was also fear, he began walking through the middle of the hall with measured steps. 

But it had always been silent, from the time it was built; and if it had been designed according to the plans of a normal House, it had never been one enough to allow the wall of glass to be shattered and fall. 

There was a spot of dark liquid, tainting the marble floor. Then another. Small dots of a deep, profound red, a colour that brought an unexplainable terror to his heart, and yet forbade him to look away. Then a series of close-brought, more regular spots. 

And then. 

He smelt it first. It could not have been that ancient. The sickening smell rushed into his nostrils, clouding his brain, altering his senses, darkening his vision. Staggering, lurching, swaying uncertainly under the weight of the nausea, he continued walking, concentrating all his mental faculties on the bare action of putting one foot in front of the other without collapsing on himself. 

A shriek had been lost somewhere in the dimensions of time, its last echo resounding again and again in the closed hall. Walls too far away to be seen, but walls, walls felt, walls guessed, walls known. 

Walls beyond the darkness. 

A rusted sword laid on the ground, snapped in two, but he did not stop to look at it closer. 

At first the iron panels of the doors resisted his failing strength, yet it was only for a short second. 

The sight that met his eye was one of pure desolation. 

He ran again, though he did not know why. He ran from the great building, now overflowing with golden light as the great doors were swung open. The overwhelming height of the edifice loomed over his head, in silent reproach for profaning its millenary peace and darkness. He ran from the sword, the broken sword; he ran from the chambers he had once known; he ran from the blood that marred the floor. He ran from the echoes of his own steps in the empty hall. 

He ran into the ruins of a town. 

Here and there, stood still the image of households and warm hearths, convivial flames sparkling bright in the fireplace. Children ran in the streets after their toddling younger siblings, calling out to them. A stranger raised a hand to greet him with a smile, before melting into a ghostly laughter, laughter… 

Running. 

Skeletons of dead trees bordered the way. 

Shards of tainted glass slashed his feet. 

White dust hovered in front of his eyes. 

Dust. 

A sharp, shrill call resounded in his ears, nearly deafening him, and his feet stumbled onto one another, sending him rolling on the white-powdered ground. 

~ 

He laid still, eagle-spread on the ground. The white-hot sunlight seared through his eyelids, forcing them to flutter open. 

He saw the boundless skies stretching above his body, pinning him to the soil.

~ 


	2. The Walking Death

The Blind Windows

By Le Chat Noir

- Part two : The Walking Death

"Curufinwë, come down at once! You are going to hurt yourself!"

The young child looked down from the tall tree. It was very high from the branch to the ground. Maybe even Father could not have reached it with his outstretched arms. And he had not ever seen any elf who was taller than Father; except maybe Russandol, who could appear tall when Father was not there. 

The cooper-headed elf was standing below the tree, on the ground, very far below, with his arms open wide. The elfling looked down, sitting on the branch. He was well balanced there. He would not fall. But Russandol was looking upset, and worried, and the boy did not know how to get down. 

It had been easy to climb, easy to get higher and higher in the ancient tree. Then he had seated himself there, and enjoyed the view. It had been hours ago. Now he was afraid, very afraid; maybe if he did not come down and Russandol could not climb up to get him he would have to spend the rest of his life there, never coming down. 

"Curvo!"

His brother's voice was growing more and more worried. The boy looked down still. It was high. But Russandol was there at the bottom, with his arms outstretched. Maybe he knew that he was stuck, that he could not come down. Older brothers always guessed everything. 

He wondered how long someone could survive by drinking rainwater and not eating. 

He looked up then, staring at the patches of sky that showed in between the interwoven branches of the tall tree. Then down again, into his brother's reassuringly familiar face. 

He jumped. 

~ 

This time, as he looked down, there was no one there waiting for him to fall into their open arms. But he had grown, taller and stronger, and had acquired the subtle balance that was the lot of all elves.

Smoothly, he let himself slide off the branch, and dropped gently on the grass below, with almost not a sound. 

The House of Fëanàro laid not too far away, and he thought he remembered the path. 

~ 

He trailed five fingers down the soiled windows, leaving tracks of relative clearness on the glass and dark stains on his fingertips.  

On the other side was only darkness. 

There was no one there. No fire burnt in the hearth of the House of Fire. The plants in the garden had grown wild again; the lonely fountain had long dried up. The wooden panels of the once-proud door were rotten to the core; and the gate had fallen from its hinges when he had pushed it open.

No one. 

There was no one there. 

~

He took pleasure in walking across the city. 

"Are you a Reborn one?" the child had asked him. 

"Yes." he said. "Why do you ask?"

The small boy followed his steps. "I don't know. You're wearing the white cloak; that one Ada's sister wore when she came back, and she said that it was the cloak of the Reborn." The child looked at him with big, guileless eyes, and frowned. "But she wore the hood, why don't you?" he added, before running off. 

Why don't I, he thought. 

Many people stared at him as he passed. He saw curiosity in their eyes, vague interest maybe; no fear, no doubt lingered there. Sometimes he stared back, and the people turned their eyes away, without once blinking or blushing under his glance.

They don't know, he realized. They don't know my face, the sound of my steps; everything has been forgotten. Time must have fled past. 

He looked down at the even, perfectly paved road his feet trod on. 

The Blessed Realm, he berated himself. Aman, the Land of the Valar. Perfection and bliss brought to you by special Ainu clientele service, with a nice ten per cent reduction for next time you call. 

Even in Tol Eressëa pain and dread have been forgotten.

A slight knot insisted on tying itself in his stomach, and he tilted his head as he walked.

How long? 

~ 


	3. The Wayward Dawn

The Blind Windows

By Le Chat Noir

- Part three: The Wayward Dawn

"You are late."

The artist added one last touch of bright cooper onto his canvas, and dipped his brush into the water, washing the paint away. He then turned around to face him. 

"You are late," he said.

Curufin stared at the transparent bowl of once clear water, where a faint red cloud now lazily dissolved itself. 

"We have all been waiting for you." The elf picked up an already brightly coloured cloth, and attempted to wipe the red stains from his fingers. His shadowed eyes rested on an indefinite particle of something in suspension in the air, and Curufin felt that he was staring right through him, without even knowing that he was there. 

Maybe he has gone blind, he thought. Many have. Too many tears shed, too many horrors seen; too many eyes torn out. 

The rag was casually tossed onto the table, and lay there, totally devoid of meaning and sense. 

"We were afraid." Curufin looked about the room. There were paintings everywhere, leaning on every wall. Giant ones. Almost frescos. Most of them represented nothing, he thought, or at least nothing that he could see; maybe he was the one that had gone blind between the two. Terrible, terrible mix of arbitrary colours, seemingly random, seemingly abstract; until the thing that was there burst out of the flattened canvas and reached out like a hand to grab you in. 

"We were afraid that they would hold you back." The voice seemed very far away. An uneasy pause followed. "You know their law, don't you?"

The silence weighed, only broken by the echo of distant steps. He blinked, and saw the other elf's face now only inches away from his own. 

"Yes," he said, his voice as low as he could. "Yes, Makalaurë, I know their law."

"Good."

He felt himself suddenly engulfed into a tight embrace, arms locking around his neck, nearly choking the wind out of him, a head rested on his shoulder. An alien sensation again; that of another's warmth against his body, another's breath against his skin. 

Unsure of what he was doing, he slid his arms around Maglor's waist, and waited. 

After a while, the older elf pulled away, and a large smile was drawn across his face.

"Come in. Make yourself at ease; if you can." The smile turned apologetic. "There is no comfort to be found here." 

Curufin stepped in, carefully shutting the door behind him. A warm light bathed the hall. The windows-panes were flung wide-open, letting the room be flooded with the scent of the sea, and the occasional call of the famished gull. 

"There is only one chair," Maglor stated, somewhat embarrassed. A slight flush came to his cheeks. "I think I used the other one as firewood two winters ago."

"Firewood?"

With a shrug, the older elf leapt on the table, and eased himself down to sit cross-legged on its flat surface. A glance at his brother invited him to do the same. Yes, Curufin thought. We did that often, a long time ago. 

"This snowstorm came up, and I happen to live at one day's walk from the nearest habitation."

The nearest people will live from you is at least one day's walk, isn't it. 

"It must get pretty lonely here sometimes, doesn't it? 

Maglor looked away. 

"Yes." He silently slid off the table. "No, I get visitors from time to time. The others come. And Mother, too." He disappeared behind a small door. "You must be hungry."

He wasn't hungry. He wasn't thirsty, either, now that he thought of it. In fact, he hadn't eaten nor drunk at all for the few days that he had been rehoused. 

Maglor came back, bearing a tray on which were displayed mandarins, pears, and two glassfuls of golden miruvor. 

"Not much," he said as he deposed the tray in between them, "but about all I've got there." He brought one of the finely wrought glasses to his lips, and took a long sip from it. "Tell me if you're interested in some bread."

Curufin held his flute with the very tip of his fingers, and admired the elegant glasswork; a dreadful contrast with the sobriety of his surroundings. 

Something about the slightly bubbling liquid in it made him wary. 

"I haven't tried any eating or drinking yet," he slowly mouthed. 

Maglor sent him a compassionate look, and put his own wine down. 

"Russandol said that it hurt a little the first time, but after the third mouthful or so he looked very fine with it." 

The sound his glass made when coming into contact with the table's surface was queer indeed. Both elves started, but the glass did not break. Hypnotised by the perfect circle its revolution on the wood traced, they stared at the rings it drew on the wood while rolling; his hand stayed frozen in the air. 

"I'm… sorry," Maglor stammered, before realising that he was not at fault. "I'll go fetch a cloth."

Curufin continued staring at the dripping liquid.

"Excuse me." His head snapped up. Maglor was sitting in front of him again, gazing at him in an enquiring fashion. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," the answer came hurriedly. "Of course." 

Those words seemed to reassure his older brother slightly. Maglor sat back and began to artfully peel a mandarin with nervous fingers. 

Curufin swallowed. "You mentioned Maitimo."

"Yes," the other one answered, without looking up. The thin, elongated orange peelings were laid on the table one by one, forming a kind of flower-like design. "Russandol."

The silence settled once more. 

"And… who else?" 

The skinned mandarin was carefully deposited in the centre of the flower, and Maglor crossed two slender hands under his chin. 

"All of us. You were the last." His left eye twitched vaguely. The small, almost unnoticeable movement stirred an uncertain something in his brother's memory; maybe it was a tic he had seen before. "We feared, you know. We feared for you. We were anxious…" his voice trailed off.

"That there was enough ground for them to keep me until the end." Curufin finished for him. "All of us…" he mused. "All of us save one, right?"

"Save one." Maglor hung his head, and spoke no more. 

The twitch came back. The younger brother stared at the fleeting twist in the other's features, and tried in vain to remember when the elder of the two had developed the tic, when he had first seen the abnormal blink distort the musician's fair face. 

After a while, Maglor heaved a heavy sigh; and, looking up, let an almost cheerful smile creep on his visage. 

"Where do you plan on staying?"

Curufin shrugged. "I don't know. Where are the others?"

"Russandol is at Mahtan's House, with our mother," Maglor began saying, counting each of his brothers off on his fingers. "So are the two Ambarussa. Carnistir lives with his wife, somewhere in a small village. They're quite happy, I think. They have two daughters. Tyelkormo got married, not so long ago; I believe he'll settle down with his new wife, too."

He paused. Curufin took another slow sip from his glass.

"And what about you? Aurel… (1)?"

Maglor smiled sadly. "Curvo, we never had time to become even fiancés." He shook his head. "She visited me once, when I first came back. Brought her son with her; a fine young lad. Can't remember his name." 

He laughed softly.

"Of course, you are going to live with Vyriel. How stupid of me." 

Curufin stared at him while fiddling with his now empty flute. He would have expected of Maglor to be living with Nerdanel, in the House of the MasterSmith; but did not dare bring up the question. Maybe there were reasons other than the laws of the Valar. 

"Does she keep in touch?"

Maglor stopped laughing, and regarded him with piercing eyes. "Oh yes, and a great lady she is, for one raised as a peasant's daughter. She lives with her father, now."

The younger elf nearly let the glass fall from his fingers. "Pardon?"

Maglor nodded. "Yes, small wooden house all alone in the moor. I believe your son is there also. I don't believe he is very happy about it." He sent his brother a searching look. "Will you go live with them?"

Curufin stared back at him, unflinching. "If they would agree to it. I'd rather have them live with me."

Maglor raised a questioning eyebrow; the other elf leapt off the table and started pacing around the room. 

"I have though about it. I don't know yet, but the House of Fire seems like it could take a little living in, not to speak of a complete cleaning session that will probably take more than a year to get a grip on, considered the state it's in." 

It was Maglor's turn to jump. "You tell me that you intend to go back to living in our House?"

Curufin pointed a finger at the ceiling. "As you have stated so well, it is _our_ House. I have a right to live in it, don't I? I'm sure the some snakes and spiders currently inhabiting it will not hold a grudge against me."

Maglor shook his head. "But it's in the very middle of Tirion!"

"No, actually the Eastern district. Cano, realise what it means. The House of Fire is the very heart of our family. We have all been born there. There lie all our memories, the memories of our past and greatness! Cano, we have to remember. _All _have to remember!"

"You can't do that! It will be a scandal!"

Curufin suspended his steps just in front of his brother. 

"And let me guess. There has never been a scandal in these parts for more time than I could figure, right? The people have forgotten even what the word meant, right?"

"It's not only that!" Maglor blinked, as if he could not believe his own eyes and ears. "Curvo, we are now scattered all throughout the land! All of us! You cannot revive the House of Fire. It is meant that way." His voice trailed off, till it was no more than a murmur. "If we are united, we'll be strong again. This they fear." 

A cold silence settled. 

"So they have done this out of fear? Killed our memories?" Curufin found himself whispering the same way as his brother, without having intended it. 

As if suddenly entranced by something about his brother that the other was not aware of, Maglor opened his mouth, then closed it, and did so twice, before being able to utter a sound. 

"You sound too much like him." And his voice was cutting like the edge of a sword. "You should never even have been a son of his."

Curufin shivered, and nearly hissed in outrage. "Because you think…"

Maglor leapt up on the table, standing at full height over his younger brother, and spat "I do not think! None of us! We should never have been, we should never have lived. The ways of Ilùvatar are dreary indeed, if in his Music he has allowed such ill to be born of the greatness of his own light."

Curufin wondered whether he should tell him that, after all these years, his voice still sounded girly when he was yelling, but decided against it. 

"And you do not believe it could be the work of Morgoth either," he stated calmly. 

Maglor took deep breaths, and after the sudden flush his face was left ashen. 

"… No. I do not."

Curufin let a small smile hover on his lips. "Do not be pained, brother. In this world there is so much sorrow already that it would be inhuman to add any extra amount to it for a few wearisome words."

A shocked hush was all that Maglor managed to utter, and the younger elf laughed to see the tiny glint of alarm in his eyes. 

"And what did you think? What are we?" Ice dripped from his voice. "Insults, and nothing more. Mere scars of battle on the fair face of our race. Drops of blood on a sheet white as snow. Dark wounds of the sword that will never quite heal. Who are we, brother, who walk this world anew to hear the curses on our names, and hear no curses come? We, who have once been the greatest of them all, their lords, their princes; we, whom they now accept among them in forgiveness of our sins? What does that make us? What does that make him?"

They both stayed still for a minute, frozen in their posture. Then Maglor shook his head, and sighed. "We are brothers."

Curufin blinked, and his threatening stance seemed to melt away like snow in summer. "Yes?"

He waved his arms about in the air, and Maglor ducked their dangerous proximity by sitting down again. 

"This is wrong," Curufin sighed. "The people have to remember if they want to prevent such a mistake from being made again."

He flung himself the table, and picked a handsome pear, biting generously in the juicy flesh. "So wrong," he repeated while chewing carefully. 

Then he choked. Startled, Maglor bent forward to pat his back; and, after a while, the coughing died down. 

"Sorry," Curufin said. "I had forgotten that it was my first bite of actual food." He smiled. "I should have been more careful."

A tentative smile crossed Maglor's lips. "But pear was always your favourite fruit."

The younger elf stared at the tear-shaped fruit intently. Now, it looked dirty, a yellowish colour; not quite as lovely as he thought he remembered. Unconsciously, he let his eyelids drop halfway over the dark pupils.  

"No." His voice fell to a murmur. "No, this is our punishment. Living as ourselves again. To have been once great, once loved and feared; and now live in a world that will not remember. Lead lives without purpose; eternal lives with not a challenge, not a strife. Be bent under their rule once more, knowing that we have failed. Knowing that we were wrong, and right always prevails." 

A strange spark lit up in his eyes. "Point zero," he said. "Where everything will start and end."

Maglor looked away from his eyes, uneased by their fey gaze.

"What was it like?"

A pause followed as Curufin caught on to what he meant. 

"I don't know." he drawled at last. "There was nothing. There was this enormous amount of nothing that was staring at me, and I was compelled to stare back at it. The void all around."

A slight frown creased Maglor's forehead. "The Darkness?"

"No, no." He shook his head. "Not the Darkness. I would have known if it was the Darkness. But the silence, and the… grey clouds… I was not in the Darkness, but I did not know what it was that was in front of me. It seemed like a giant frozen whirlpool, something terrible. I thought it could be the Darkness; and I was afraid for a very long time. There was no other around. The souls seemed to shun me; a dim sense of foreboding kept them away. I was the fear. I was… still myself. There was nothing different from my houseless _fëa__ and the one I always had been; no judgment came upon me, no ghastly voice out of the night, speaking my doom… Yet I felt unquiet because of that, because of being me. I don't know what I had been thinking, some kind of horrible miracle, maybe, or something, a release from myself. I could not budge, only stare at the thing, and the only way to move was forwards, into the pit. It would have destroyed me, I knew it, and I would have lost all chance of ever being rehoused. I was the Darkness, and the Darkness was me." He paused, hesitating. Maglor, not wanting to press him on, looked at his feet. _

Curufin took a deep breath. 

"I jumped in."

One of his eyebrows shot up, as if he disbelieved his own words. "Then… I was lying in a bed, chocking and rasping and trying to find my breath." 

A silence passed. 

"What did you learn?" Maglor asked in a whisper. 

The other elf heaved a deep sigh. "Next time I am intent on destroying myself, I'll make sure no one is following me."

The older brother let a tiny smile float on his lips, and moved to let one of his arms slid around the other's shoulder. 

"Well, make sure at least one of us is following you, just to hold you back in case you intend to jump off a cliff."

Curufin laughed a dry laugh.  

"Aye. So long as you don't also stumble over the edge." 

Then they stayed silent, unsure of their words. Curufin let his gaze wander about the room, allowing it to stray upon the multitude of canvas: the outburst of colours confused his eyes and deceived his reason. There was not much to be seen, he thought; all the paintings could have been repetitions of each other, with only a slight altering of something he couldn't place. However, the actual meaning felt lost to him, and he waved a vague finger in an undetermined direction. 

"What are they?"

Maglor sighed, and his arm left its place on his brother's shoulders.

"My judgment." He let himself slide off the table. "My ghosts." Walking over to the images, he strode down the room, trailing a hand along the canvas. "The ones who watch over my sleep." 

"You paint like mother." Curufin remarked when Maglor had arrived at the end of the wall. "Mahtan said that before she met Father she spent days locked up in her rooms with her brushes and colours and didn't come out until she was finished…" 

Maglor shook his head. 

"I will never be finished." He nervously tapped his foot on the ground. "I will not be finished even when the end has come."

Curufin had silently made his way to the corner where his brother was, and stood still beside him, embracing the entire depths of the room with his eyes.

"Look," Maglor said, his words clear and loud in the empty hall. "No colour is ever the same." 

"So you say."

Maglor smiled painfully. "You call me a liar. It doesn't even hurt anymore."

"This they call healing," Curufin shrugged. 

"Yes."

The younger elf furtively examined the other's profile, a drawing of whites and blacks clearly cut out against the background of fiery colours. Beautiful as always, as Curufin had always thought he was, Maglor's complexion was strangely still shadowed and gaunt, his skin wan; dark rings under his eyes showed his continuous fatigue, ever bringing out the black of his pupils. 

"There is no healing, in fact," he said.

"Only, in its time, oblivion," the other completed. 

"A balm on the wounds."

"A grave for the pain."

"A grave."

The conversation languished again, until Curufin's head suddenly snapped up.

"Tell me how the war did end."

Maglor looked surprised by such a question, but answered nonetheless.

"We won." As Curufin looked like he wanted more details, he went on. "After Menegroth, Gondolin fell in turn; it is said that she was betrayed to Morgoth by Aredhel's son." Curufin flinched. "The remnants of the two people met at the Mouths of Sirion; and there stayed a while. They had a Silmaril though, so they died. We lost Ambarussa then. I…" he hesitated for a second. "I adopted some children who had survived. But the jewel was lost, and its light now graces the heavens under the name of Estel. Eärendil, the son of Idril, bore it to Valimar and was bestowed the sight of the Valar, mortal that he was. In the end, they came for us, the two elven factions left: Cirdan on Balar and us. There was battle." He paused. "Great battle. Beleriand was drowned; Morgoth taken down." He trailed off.

Curufin leant against one of the paintings. 

"So we won." He chewed on a strand of his hair. "Won. They finally came for us, didn't they?"

"Eönwë," Maglor went on, with a desperate gesture, "claimed the Silmarils; and we tried to take them back, and did so. But we could not hold them. Maitimo threw himself into a pit in despair, and I… I waited by the sea." he concluded lamely. 

"You waited…"

"Six Ages."

"Quite a while."

Curufin laughed, and, leaving his brother to stand in the corner, walked along the walls, looking up at the paintings like a connoisseur in an exhibition. 

Maglor's reply took its time in coming, and reached only his turned back. "Long enough."

He completed his slow circling of the hall, and stood before his brother again. 

"I will come back to visit you often," he said. 

A smile was given in reply. "I do hope so indeed," and he ruffled the younger one's hair, "little brother."

Curufin made a face, and didn't even attempt to get his hair under control. 

An uneasy silence followed, such as that when difficult farewells are to be made. 

"I'm sure," Maglor said at last, "I'm sure you have many more visits to make before this day is ended."

"Most certainly."

Neither of them moved.

"I should be going," he said, looking out the window. "The Sun is high already."

A strange force still had them both rooted to the ground. 

"Well," Curufin said.

Maglor took his hands in his. "I'm glad to have seen you." 

They pulled each other into a warm embrace. "And I you."

Naturally, as they began to walk towards the door, Maglor led him by the hand; and Curufin thought of the pensive young elf who had been a parent to his brothers who knew none. 

Maglor shot him a sideway glance. 

"Do you want me to give you Mother's address?"

Curufin wore a pained expression.

"I believe I still can remember that."

Maglor looked up with an air of doubt. "Are you sure? Moryo got lost in the woods when he tried to find his wife's village. We had to send out search parties for him."

They both laughed, though shyly, and Curufin tried a clumsy whack on his brother's head.

"I still think I am better at directions than Moryo is." 

Maglor grinned.

"Just don't allow him to get near you after he hears that, and you'll be fine."

Curufin stepped out of the door, blinking. He paused, and looked eastwards to the Sea, feeling the salty wind whipping at his hair and cloak, taking in the scent of the tide. 

The smile faded from his lips, to be replaced by a wistful frown.

"What do you believe?" he asked in a murmur. "Will they let him go before the end?"

Maglor followed his brother's gaze, and saw the endless vastness of grey waves stretching into the distance. He leant on the doorframe, shaking his head.

"I don't know." After a while, he added, "Not if it is not truly the end."

Curufin felt the warm sunlight on his face. 

"We will wait then," he said.

And Maglor answered

"Yes."

~

1 – Aurel is the name of Maglor's wife in Valinor, invented by Artanis (I think, please correct me if I'm wrong.) I have decided not to make her his wife in this story (as canon or not canon is questionable anyways.) 

Remember: this is what they say, yet what they say may not be what they think, and what they think may not be what truly is. 

Feedback time. 


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